Chapter 3
Jack
“Hey, Jacko,” Desmond greets me as he walks by, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his joggers.
He smiles at me and I manage a real one back.
I love it that he calls me that, and I really love it that nobody else has picked it up.
It feels like something just between us.
A special thing given just to me, the same way Nate’s “Micky Mouse” is.
“Hi, Desmond. How are you?”
“Not bad for a gym day. You right?” I nod, ducking my head to finish tying the drawstring on my shorts. I love the way he talks. “Grab your runners and I’ll walk back with you. Your buddy Nate already there?”
The lovely, happy buzz in my chest fizzles out. I don’t want to talk about Nate. Talking about Nate with one of the coaching staff means I’m either going to have to lie, or betray my friend and tell the truth.
“Yeah, he’s here,” I agree softly. Desmond just rocks back on his heels, waiting patiently as I tug on my running shoes.
My heart is pounding as though I’m already in the midst of a workout.
We leave the locker room and head toward the gym.
I try to think of conversational avenues I might pursue that won’t lead to Nate. “So, do you miss Australia?”
I’ve learned quite a bit about him during our first few days, simply because I’d listen in when my teammates peppered him with questions.
He’s young enough that he doesn’t feel as off-limits as Coach Mackenzie sometimes does, and the curiosity levels are high where he’s concerned.
Because of this, I know that he’s spent three-quarters of his life in Australia and has dual citizenship.
I know he has a nephew he’s raising as a single parent.
I know that the topic of why he’s raising his nephew is off-limits, because of the way his eyes are often sad.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Haven’t thought about it much, if I’m being honest. I will, though.” He sends me a somewhat covert smile, as though he’s bringing me in on a secret. “Every time I’ve left in the past, I always miss it eventually.”
I ponder that as we reach the gym, and he opens the door.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the idea of loving one place so much that it hurts when you’re gone.
Growing up, I’d hated every place I’d called home, and now home is little more than one hundred and twenty square feet.
If I had to leave tomorrow, I wouldn’t miss South Carolina or the university.
I’d miss the people in it. I’d miss Nate.
“Give me a fifteen-minute warm-up,” Desmond tells me. “Stretch, Jacko, stretch .”
I blush, embarrassed that he’s already figured me out. I fucking hate stretching, which isn’t great since I’m expected to do the splits on a regular basis.
“Once you’re finished, come find me. I’ve got a few Bosu circuits I want you to run through. ”
“Okay.”
I watch as he treads a direct line toward where Nate is chatting with a few of the guys.
I feel bad, which is ridiculous since it’s not as though I told Desmond he needed to talk to him.
But, as always, I feel bad anyway and watch in dismay as Nate and Desmond leave the gym together.
I have a feeling I know exactly why they are having a private conversation.
Nate doesn’t come back with Desmond, and I spend the majority of the workout stressing about whether he thinks I ratted on him or not. The moment Desmond lets us leave, I’m out the door and calling him.
“Hey, Micky Mouse,” Nate answers, and then, because he knows me, tacks on, “I’m not mad.”
“I didn’t say anything, even though I wanted to.”
He snorts. “Yeah, buddy, I know. Apparently, fucking Desmond has the eyes of a hawk and noticed I kept my arm tucked at practice, which I didn’t even realize I was doing.”
“Wow. What did he say?”
“Straight up asked why I was protecting my ribs.” Nate laughs, clearly not mad, and even sounding a little impressed. “And here I was thinking I was going to get away with it.”
“You’re crazy for wanting to get away with it,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t be playing hockey until you can breathe without pain.”
“Coach Mackenzie was, shall we say, a bit displeased.”
A laugh startles out of me, the sound almost too loud on the mostly empty campus.
I shake my head, even though he can’t see it.
I envy Nate’s ability to let everything bounce off of him like he’s made of rubber.
He doesn’t even sound upset at all, even though he probably just spent the last couple hours being yelled at and is now unable to play.
“I don’t even want to think about how mad Coach was,” I tell him. Coach Mackenzie’s default is scary—I cannot imagine how he’d be if he was actually mad. I would have died of fear if I’d been in Nate’s place.
“Coach asked me, ‘did you hit your head or are you really this stupid?’”
“He did not.” I laugh again, the sound echoing through the stairwell as I begin the climb up to my dorm.
“He really did. That was the lead-in to the lecture. Then, he sent me to talk to Aaron, who followed up with a lecture of his own. I’m on my way to Marcos’ apartment now—figured I might as well round out the night with a lecture trifecta.”
“Is he going to be mad you lied to him?” I ask nervously. I haven’t met Marcos yet, but Nate loves him, which I hope means he’s a good guy.
“I didn’t lie , Mick, I just…danced around the truth a little bit. I told him I was going to practice, but I didn’t tell him exactly what I was doing there. He thinks I’ve been sitting on the sidelines watching, or doing light gym workouts.”
Shaking my head, I let myself into my dorm and immediately lock the door behind me. I’m pretty sure the distinction between a lie and “dancing around the truth” isn’t going to matter to Marcos. Not when something bad could have happened to Nate.
“You’re definitely in for another lecture,” I agree.
“I don’t know why everyone is so bent out of shape.” He huffs, truck door slamming in the background. “I’m fine. It’s just bruised ribs. I was at the first week of practice and nothing happened, right? ”
“Right, except Desmond noticed, so.”
“Oh well. Aaron said I could do light gym workouts, but no ice time. Out for two weeks for sure, and then we will reassess.”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” I say consolingly. I know how much he was looking forward to his last season on the team.
“Yeah. Hey, speaking of Desmond the hottie. I saw you talking to him, and you were barely red at all. Wrangled that crush into submission, did you?”
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. It’s not my fault I’m attracted to him. It’s not like I can control it. And he’s really nice. Like, really nice. I like that.”
“Coach Mackenzie is nice too, which you’d know if you didn’t run away from him every time he tried to talk to you.”
“Says the guy who just spent an hour being yelled at by Coach Mackenzie,” I fire back. He’s right, though. Coach is nice, and he’s never done anything to me beyond giving me far too many chances as a starting goalie. If he wasn’t nice, he would have kicked my worthless ass off the team long ago.
“If we’re just going by hotness scale though, you’re right. Desmond wins over Coach, no contest. Hard to beat the accent.”
“And the eyes. And the curls,” I mutter, blushing. God, how embarrassing. I shouldn’t be thinking about this, or having this conversation with Nate. Coaching staff should not be sexualized. Ever . “We have to stop talking about this.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m home—at Marcos’, I mean, anyway. You good?”
“I’m good. Back at the dorms. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow, Micky Mouse. Pray for me,” he adds in a whisper, and I can hear the gentle background noise of a door opening .
We hang up, and I don’t bother sending any prayers his direction.
I doubt he’ll need them. If there’s one thing I know about Nate, it’s that he’s good at getting out of trouble.
Marcos will probably be mad for all of thirty seconds, until Nate bats his eyelashes and acts cute. Pretty people truly have all the luck.